All That Jazz
by Emperor of Aces
Summary: First that note appeared, the note that Slick though was just part of a nightmare he suffered after a club performance gone awry. Even so, he imagined it was just a prank. It was nothing.    And then people began to show up dead...
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter I**

Going to your own club is a bit like reading your own book; it's fantastic, it's perfect, it's tailor-made to your own tastes, yet there's nothing exciting about it at all. Every plot twist, every endearing character, every cleverly executed phrase, you know it all. You even know the ending, and where's the fun in that? It almost entirely defeats the purpose of you reading your own book to begin with.

And that is why, every once in a blue moon, Spades Slick needed to get away from his own club.

Now, don't be fooled, Slick loved his own jazz lounge, just like he loved his whole city, but it was his, he ran it inside and out, so, as a result there was nothing he didn't expect. If he himself wasn't up on the stage pounding away on his little black piano with the rest of his Crew behind him playing along on their respective instruments, it was someone else whose act he most likely knew because they'd played at his place before at one time or another. He knew their acts almost as well as he knew his own, and even if they claimed to be putting on a show consisting of 'surprise' songs, improv, or some other shit along those lines, Slick usually had an inking as to what it would be, and it never alarmed him when it turned out he was right.

Occasionally he'd get the chance to hire a new face, typically some kind of young, fresh musician who was just starting out, but such little nuggets of variety were few and far in-between. For one thing, new musicians were hard to come by, and, secondly, good new musicians were almost impossible to come by, and Slick would rather run a great, albeit somewhat predictable, show than an innovative albeit horrendous one. Thus, his often perfect club was perfectly boring to its owner.

That night, to feed his burning desire for a little variety, Slick left the administration of his joint in the hands of his good companion, Droog, and went off to spend some quality alone-time and a little nook known as "The Mockingbird." It was small, about a third of the size of his own glorious place, and in an exceptionally seedy section of town, but he'd heard great things about it - the drinks, the music - and had always resolved to pay it a visit but, until now, never had the chance.

With his overdue visit finally being paid, Sick took a seat at a solitary table in the back of the room, sticking to the shadows and feeling thankful for the concealing smog of cigarette smoke that meandered lazily about the alarmingly spacious room. It wasn't that Slick disliked attention, on the contrary he usually quite liked being in the spotlight, it was just that sometimes a guy needed a bit of solitude and, even wearing a different hat and Droog's neat yet slightly over-sized suit, Slick was an easily recognizable guy. There weren't too many one-eyed, one-armed mobsters in this city. The haze provided just enough cover to make him look like any other black-carapaced patron.

Slick pulled a cigar, for he had long since lost his taste for cigarettes after a rather unfortunate encounter resulting in his ruined eye, from his chest pocket and added his own smoke to the mix. Then he flagged down a waitress and had her bring him a nice glass of sambuca, served straight-up. He brought it to his lips and smiled as he tasted the night's first sip of warm delight. There was no drink more perfect than sambuca. Hard liquor and the smooth taste of licorice all blended together into one fine brew. It was Slick's own earthly slice of the heaven he would probably never see.

The spotlight suddenly winked on, illuminating a circular patch on the stage. The white drone of voices faded into silence as the red velvet curtains were peeled back to reveal a scrawny, white-carapaced fellow seated at a baby grand.

It was no one Slick had ever seen before. He puffed his cigar expectantly.

The kid flexed his finger over the keys once, and then struck up a cheery little ragtime number. Decent, Slick though, but the kid could have worked on his timing. As chipper as the song was, it still seemed a little bit too swiftly played to Slick's elite ear. He probably would have never hired the kid himself to play at his own place, but beneath the cover of that small round table's white cloth, the mobster still found his foot tapping along. Not the best music, but Slick couldn't say he wasn't enjoying himself.

By the time the kid's three-minute performance was up and the following applause trickled away, Slick was on his second drink and about a third of the way through his cigar. The curtains closed momentarily as the next performer was brought out, and when they opened again, what he saw caused his glass to slip from his grasp and clatter embarrassingly onto the table, spilling its contents down the cloth and onto his borrowed pants. He was oblivious to the gazes of those around him, who all glanced towards the fool who's dropped his drink, and made no move to pick up the glass. His cigar smoldered between his fingers, forgotten.

He had though that maybe by getting away from his friends, his club, his regular routines, and everything that reminded him of Derse, his old home, he'd find some solstice. Some peace, a way to forget it all for a while. Especially to forget about her.

But it seemed, on that autumn night, there would be no such luck for Spades Slick. The bitch was like a ghost who would haunt him forever, except, unlike a ghost, she was real, and she was there. Right there.

She wore that famous gown of hers - what was it, her 'Three in the Morning Dress' or something like that? - that one that looked black until it hit the light, upon which it glittered a scintillating green. It clung to her figure like a lover, showcasing the graceful curve of her hips, her shapely black legs, her generous breasts. God, how Slick hated that dress. It made him feel idiotically weak in the knows and warm between the thighs. It made her look beautiful.

His hand trembled fiercely as the cigar came up to meet his lips. Beneath its velvet patch, his scarred eye suddenly ached.

Her white eyes scanned the crowd as the band behind her started up, a slow swinging tune that would have been right up Slick's alley on any other occasion. He didn't know the bitch could sing, but she sure as heck wasn't playing and she held a microphone in her hands, so it looked like she was going to try her hand at it. Were she not who she was, he might have been curious to see the outcome.

Slick gripped the arms of his chair, his claws carving gashes in the wood, and tried to slink further into the cover of darkness. His heart hammered in his chest like a drum and he could feel his heated blood as it pulsed, burning, though his veins. Fingers still trembling like leaves in a storm, he removed his half-smoked cigar and ground its glowing tip out in his ashtray. One less thing for her eyes to focus on. One less chance for her to see him skulking about in the back of the room. He hoped more than anything that she wouldn't see him, that her gaze would drift right over him and that he'd remain invisible amidst the haze and darkness. But, as usual when dealing with her, Spades Slick would not get his way.

Her eyes locked onto him from across the room as though the two of them were magnets. As her gaze lingered, his heart sped up to an agonizing speed. His gut roiled and he suddenly regretted having all that sambuca. Flesh prickled, his body sweated, claws dug deeper into wood.

And Snowman, she just smiled as if to say, "Hello, Slick, I see you there."

He couldn't take it any longer.

Slick pushed himself away from the table, not caring how much of a ruckus he made when the chair toppled back as he stood. People around him looked at him like he was some kind of asshole, disrupting the poor woman's performance before she'd even begun! Slick cursed them inwardly as he stormed towards the backdoor exit. Screw them. If they saw the bitch that she was, and not the voluptuous empress that stood before them now, they'd understand. Then they'd know who the one to really be hated was.

xxx

The cold, foggy air of the night was a refreshing contrast to the murky heat of The Mockingbird's interior, but it did little to quell the fire raging inside Slick. He flipped open a little silver lighter, lit the cigarette clamped between his teeth - fuck that bitch and her fucking holders and his own stupid eye, he needed a goddamn cancer stick - and took a long drag once it was lit. Returning the lighter to his pants pocket (Droog was going to be livid once he saw the current state of said pants) Slick started off towards the Crew's hideout.

They all had more than enough money to afford their own apartments, but as is often said, old habits die hard. The four of them spent years out in the Alternian wastelands as exiles watching each others backs day after excruciating day. They ate, slept, and fought together, all while collectively dreaming of living the lives they did now. While they all possessed their own private chambers in their current hideout, it felt unnatural for the Midnight Crew not to sleep together under one roof. They were just too used to keeping tabs on one another. And, while none of them would openly admit to it (except maybe for Deuce, but he didn't count for much in that regard - the boy lacked any legitimate kind of shame) they all thoroughly enjoyed each others company.

Slick himself quietly hoped that by some stroke of luck one of his companions would be home that night, but he couldn't shake that nasty squirming feeling in the pit of his gut that everyone but himself was running according to schedule. Sure enough, when he finally came upon the dingy brick block of a building that was the Crew's hideout, Droog's sleek black car was absent from the driveway. Slick was alone with only his anger for company.

Stiff but no longer shaking, Slick stomped up the front steps and rammed the house key into its slot. He gave it a vicious turn and crammed the door inward, not caring if the knob put a hole in the plaster when it slammed into the wall. Slick kicked it shut, another slam, and started across the darkened kitchen to where the refrigerator sat up against the farthest wall. He flung it open, its cool artificial light spilling across the linoleum tiles and casting a haunting glow across Slick's enraged face. His grey lips were pulled back from his sharp fangs in a snarl. He looked like a madman. Had the objects in the fridge any legs, they might have high-tailed it across town just from the sight of him.

He needed a drink, needed one badly. Something hot and fiery to match the way he felt inside. All he saw in the fridge however, aside from the occasional Tupperware container harboring God-knew-what concocted last week, was beer.

He swore and subjected yet another door to his angry emotional break-down. When he turned, intent on kicking over one of the stools that surrounded the breakfast bar in the center of the kitchen, he instead found exactly what he was looking for. Glittering in the street light that fell in through the window above the sink was the shapely outline of a whiskey bottle.

Slick seized it by the neck and stormed off to his room. For the first time that night he opened and closed a door softly, then he shrugged off Droog's jacket and took a seat on his bed.

"Here's to that bitch," he began unscrewing the cap, "that, big, stupid bitch."

Slick tipped the bottle to his lips and drank...and drank…and drank.

xxx

THIS IS STUPID, I-I mean, this is my very first attempt at writing any kind of Noir fiction. Call it my 'Noir fiction training wheels' if you will. Regardless, it kind of sucks, so consider yourself warned. I enjoy writing it though, so I guess that's all that matters. Let's see how long it lasts lol.

Crits are welcome. The only thing I ask for is fairness.

And just as a forewarning, while this chapter only contained some cuss words and a pitifully cliche situation, there will be semi-graphic sexual content and violence in later chapters. There will also be no trolls whatsoever.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter II**

He was caught in that fine rift between wakefulness and slumber. The world was in a fog, like the ocean on a cool summer night, except Slick felt anything but cool. His carapace felt burning hot and clammy, disgusting while encased in the thick wool suit he'd neglected to remove before passing out. He could smell himself, and he smelled soupy and revolting. Slick's head was pounding so hard he could hear the drum of his own pulse, and with each throb came an intense wave of pain. He let his heavy eyelids close and stifled a moan as his sour stomach roiled.

And then something soft and cold made its damp, relieving presence known upon his forehead.

"If you have to puke, buckets on your right. Stupid drunk." It wasn't Droog's voice as he'd expected, but the silky – and painfully familiar – voice of a female.

Slick wasn't awake then, he couldn't have been. He wasn't dreaming either. He must have been having a nightmare.

Slick managed to remove the facecloth with one drunkenly limp arm, but when he tried to sit up, he was firmly pushed back onto the mattress.

"Easy. Easy." A thin, manicured hand was pressed to his chest, holding him down. Her arm was so close to his face that Slick could smell the perfume on her wrist, a heady aroma along the lines of lavender and rosemary. Even drunk and in a horrible dream, her smell made him want to tear her clothes off like a wild-man and fuck her. Or be fucked by her.

He opened his mouth to tell her how much he hated for for it, and for showing up in his dream still wearing that stupidly gorgeous glittering gown that spilled over the side of the bed and over her shapely, crossed legs. He wanted to call her a bitch. A slut. A cunt. To tell her he didn't want her stupid help and that he could take care of his own hung-over ass, but all that came out was a gurgle more fit for a mental patient than a gangster.

She laughed, her smile bright against her dark features, then she brushed her fingers along the jawline of his helpless face. "It seems all the men in this city are just boys in disguise, so prone to throwing little temper-tantrums when things don't go their way. Isn't that right, Slick?" She pinched his cheek as though he were a child and then laughed, low and soft. "I know you want to hurt me, Slick, I can see it in your eyes, even if you're stone-cold drunk. But you can't. At least, not in this state." She pulled a cigarette, thankfully void of a holder, out from the bra area of her dress and lit it. "Anyway, believe me or not, though I'm sure you won't, I've been looking for you. There is something I've been meaning to give you."

His alcohol-slowed mind had no time to think of anything vaguely resembling a response before she was upon him. There was nothing tender about her kisses. She kissed him hard, almost violently. Her tongue invaded his mouth and her sharp teeth were unforgiving as they painfully razed his lips. She tasted of cigarettes with a slight tinge of mint. The flavor added to his fever, heating him with the combined temperatures of hatred, passion, and lust.

Neither would admit it, but in that moment, together they reveled in their combined inferno.

She was the one to break the kiss, and she pulled away smiling, bringing a trail of saliva and blood with her. She slipped a crumpled piece of paper into his good hand.

"Don't lose it, Slick." She stood and glided over to the doorway, her steps impossibly quiet in her green spike pumps. For a moment she paused and leaned against the frame, a shapely silhouette of feminine perfection. "Trust me, you'll thank me for it later."

With that she was gone, and Slick let his eyes close. He fell back into his painful vortex, hoping that if he fell asleep in the dream, he'd wake up in reality.

xxx

lol shit is shit.

Taking a brief hiatus from HS fanfic because someone is paying me to write two original stories for them, and I have to put a client above garbage I write for my own amusement.

But when I'm all done with that you'll see two new Midnight Crew shorts, so don't lose faith on me yet.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter III**

"This is stupid, and you know it." The Coupe's rubbery rag top was folded down, and Clover had to hold his purple and white hat in his lap or else wind would have plucked it right off his head. He didn't expect jack to happen while he was around, but Itchy drove too fast in a car that wasn't his and in a neighborhood where they were about as welcome as the plague. The little man couldn't help feeling on-edge, even if he was the luckiest shit this side of the city. "If we even find this lass, so you honestly expect her to believe us? 'Hello, ma'am, we're here on behalf of a guy who manages a high-end club on behalf of another guy, and we are going to make you a deal you can't refuse because our normal lead is down for the count!' Just listen to it, Itchy, it sounds so far-fetched. And don't get me started on our, ah, disguise."

"Shut your fucking—SHIT!" He slammed his foot on the break, the car screeching as rubber burned on asphalt. The metallic blue Coupe swerved to a halt, narrowly avoiding a collision with another driver who honked his rage and flashed an obscene gesture. "Watch where you're fucking driving, you dipshit!" Itchy shook his fist and sped away, revving the engine for good measure.

Clover sighed. He was glad the car's owner couldn't see what Itchy was putting it through. The poor chap would probably have a heart-attack if he did. "Your light was red, you know."

"Don't care. He should have seen I was coming up fast. Guys like that should pay better attention to the goddamn road. I know it's dark and all, but this car is fucking bright blue, you can see it coming for miles. There ain't no reason why he couldn't have stopped."

Clover didn't comment on that one. If Itchy was right, Itchy was right, regardless of whether such was actually true or not, and Clover wasn't in the mood for arguing with a brick wall.

"Okay," Clover fixed his glasses higher up on his face and settled back into his chair, his body relaxing slightly after that quick brush with a ridiculous insurance bill, "you were saying? You know, how we're suppose to get this to actually work?"

"Oh, yeah, that." Without taking his eyes off the road, Itchy picked his cup of coffee out of its holder and took a sip. "We're just going to see if this broad is actually any good. If she is, then we approach her come leaving time, tell her our deal, and then see what she says. If it's yes, excellent, if the bitch says no...I'll talk that over with Crowbar or Doze when the time comes."

Clover crossed his arms and stared outside, watching the streetlights and headlights as they smeared across his vision. "Why couldn't you have just brought him with you instead of me? That would have made this so much easier, when you think about it."

"Crowbar or Doze?"

"Doze."

Itchy let out a dry cough of laughter that was more exasperated that it was amused. "If that was suppose to be a joke, it wasn't funny."

"No, it wasn't. I'm ser—hey, slow the hell down, there's a person in that crosswalk!"

"Fine. Fine." He let up on the break, giving the pedestrian just enough time to dive out of the way. "Listen, Clover, this mission would be a fucking pain in my ass if I brought him instead of you. First off," he held up a finger, "if I brought him, he'd insist on driving. Not really because this is his car, though that's an issue too, because if he saw the way I drive his ride all I would hear the entire time would be his whiny-ass voice going, 'Itchy slow down! Itchy, you're gonna nick the paint. Itchy stop this, Itchy stop that.' But mainly, the problem is he actually has a license, so in theory, it makes sense for him to drive. But, have you ever fucking been passenger while driving with him?"

Clover rolled his thin shoulders in a shrug. "No, but-"

"Exactly. If you ever let him drive, all you'd hear would be WEEEEEEH, WEEEEEEEH as other assholes constantly beep the shit out of your ears because he's gotta drive as slow as a god damn senile turtle. And secondly," two fingers, "we gotta look like we're one guy when we go into this restaurant, and, to be honest, I couldn't hold his fat ass on my shoulders, and he, being the limp lard sack that he is, sure as shit couldn't hold me on his. Third," three fingers, "if shit somehow gets real, it's going to be easier for me to get you out of there than it would be for me to get him out of there. Got it?"

"Aye, I got it." Clover looked down at his black suit, feeling alien out of his gang's signature green. "Doesn't mean I like it though. It still seems like it would make more sense to bring along the guy who actually has his fingers in this whole 'hiring the new voice until Snow gets back' thing. Your heart is in the right place and all, Itchy, but instead of trying to be the secret do-gooder to make it easier on your friends, why don't you just let the people who know what they're doing just...you know, do what they're suppose to do?"

Itchy polished off the rest of his coffee and tossed the Styrofoam cup backwards out the window. "And why don't you just shut the fuck up for a change? Besides, I ain't doing this for my 'friend', I'm doing this for the good of the Felt."

Clover opened his mouth to retaliate, but then decided he still wasn't in the mood for a fight with only one possible outcome. Itchy would deny it until the end, but he was as transparent as glass, and Clover could see right through him. He didn't need to argue with Itchy to know the man had some _interesting_ feelings for his temporal counterpart. Poorly-concealed feelings that that often went unnoticed by the very person they were intended for. And there was no point in trying to knock some sense into a love-struck fool.

Clover sat back in his seat and returned his gaze to the barely discernible scenery outside, trying to ignore the sight of another pedestrian who almost ended up blindsided by the car.

And Itchy wondered why he couldn't get a license of his own.

Five minutes of speeding hell and dozens of enraged honks later, they finally reached the docks where this supposed girl performed at this supposed rat-hole of a restaurant. The dank air was heavy with the rotten-egg stench of low tide and salt, and peeking between the gaps in the rows of dingy buildings Clover could see the flat grey expanse of the ocean dotted with the forms of boats that bobbed like toys in a tub. Over the clanking of the Coupe's engine, he could hear the bellow of a foghorn across the dark waters.

The neighborhood, with its blocky tenements lined up like hulking sentinels and its terrible smell, gave Clover an honest case of the creeps. It wasn't just that it was on the wrong side of town, there was something about it he genuinely disliked. Couldn't put his finger on it, but that awful feeling of dread was suddenly lurking over his shoulder like some neck-breathing monster and it sure as hell didn't feel good. He hoped Itchy stuck to his signature swiftness and got this job over with fast.

Itchy took a sudden sharp left down a narrow alleyway that smelled of stale urine and garbage, and then let the car coast to a stop before he cut the engine. "Alright, we're about a block away from the place we need to be at. I'm leaving the car here out of sight just in case anyone actually recognizes the tacky novelty plate. 'Two-Four-Six-Eight', goddammit, way to be noticeable."

Clover opened the car door and carefully lowered himself out backwards. He didn't mind being short, but it made getting in and out of cars made for normal individuals a pain. "In his defense, Itchy, he only uses this car when he's doing _legal_ things." Clover straightened out his black suit, wrinkled from being rubbed against the car seat. "And, before you even say we're not doing anything illegal, I'm going to say we minus well be. This is a dangerous neighborhood for green guys, even if tonight we're wearing black."

Itchy mumbled an expletive between clenched teeth. "I've had enough of your bitching, pipsqueak." He popped the trunk, withdrew a long trench-coat, then slammed the lid harder than was necessary. "Now, get your ass over here. It's time to suit up."

-

The smooth sound of a sax rolled out to greet them as they stepped into the restaurant's warm interior. It opened up first into a small antechamber with a coat rack and set of benches, but the duo didn't discard their coat nor did they take a seat.

Clover sat on top of Itchy's shoulders, straddling the other man's neck with his short legs and praying that was enough to keep him from losing his balance. Itchy had the bottom, was essentially the 'legs' of their formation. Clover didn't envy him. Keeping himself from pitching backwards was a pain, but navigating with but a buttonhole for visibility must have been hell. At least Clover had the comfort of knowing that, if anyone botched this up, it would be Itchy.

"Okay, you ready down there?" Though there wasn't a soul in that tiny room, Clover kept his voice quiet, erring on the side of caution.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm ready."

"Aye, good. The faster we can get this done, the faster we can get home." And also not get caught, Clover silently added. "Now, let's go."

As soon as Itchy took the first step, Clover knew the rest of the night was going to be a bitch. Clover's first instinct was to grab onto his friend's head and not let go, but he couldn't without completely throwing off the appearance of their disguise. All he could do was clench his legs harder around Itchy's neck. He could almost hear Itchy's snide comments about having his head squashed between another man's legs. Clover nibbled his lower lip, knowing that it would be rude jokes abound once they got back.

Itchy moved his way forward, and almost walked face-first into the glass door leading to the main lounge of the restaurant. An unnatural bump formed in the lengthy fabric of the coat as his hands shot outward to keep himself from falling.

"Be careful down there!" Clover hissed as he pushed open the door to the lounge. "I do the hand movements, remember?"

"I remember! Jeez, I was just trying not to fall on my fucking face!"

"Just try not to trip again." Clover dropped his voice low. "Now, shut up. I have to talk to the receptionist. Move forward about fifteen feet."

The pace was unusually slow for Itchy and Clover hoped – prayed – that the movements weren't too jerky, too unnatural. It was only fifteen feet from the entrance to the wooden reception desk, behind which stood a pretty Prospitian woman who cocked her head and smiled pleasantly when Clover made eye contact. Fifteen feet. Just fifteen. Itchy could do it, Clover had faith in him.

When they were about a yard away, Clover gave the girl a goofy, gap-toothed grin and tipped his hat. "Hello, miss. I'd like a table for just one – oh, god!"

He was a fool for believing in Itchy.

The idiot caught the tip of his shoe on a ripple in the rug and stumbled forward, nearly throwing Clover off his seat. Clover's upper-body slammed into the receptionist's counter with a loud smack and a crack as the left lens of his glasses was busted against it. He feebly gripped the surface of the slippery, polished wood for dear life, his hold on Itchy a weak one.

Eyes wide and mouth drawn in a concerned pout, the receptionist tapped one finger on her lower lip. "Sir, are you...alright?"

Clover grinned a wide grin, his cheeks flushing deep red. "I'm perfectly fine, ma'am! I just seem to be having some great difficulties with my legs." On the edge of his peripherals in the eye that could still see, Clover could see a glowing neon sign that read 'GENTS'. A restroom. Privacy. What the hell would his life be without his luck powers? "I'm just going to go to the bathroom for a moment, and I'll be right out. Is that alright with you?"

He sure as shit hoped it was alright. His ass was slowly slipping over Itchy's head, and he could feel the other man growing tense with discomfort.

"Uh, sure. I'll have the table all set up for you when you get out." She plucked a pen from her apron and flipped open a yellow notepad. "May I get your name first?"

"Clo – or – ence. Clorence. My name is Clorence."

She said something in the affirmative, but Clover didn't hear it because as soon as he'd spoken his on-the-spot alias, Itchy made a dash to the restroom. They barely made it inside before Clover finally lost his balance, tumbling forward onto the white-tiled floor in a flurry of black cloth. He sat up in time to watch from his one good eye as Itchy locked them both inside.

Clover pulled his glasses off his face and scowled as glass bits tinkled to the floor. "Itchy –"

"I'm sorry, alright?" He threw his hands out to the sides, palms facing Clover, and offered a shrug. "I fucked up, I know. But hey, I didn't know the rug was gonna try and jump my toes like that." When Clover's expression failed to soften, Itchy sighed and slumped, leaning his body against the wall. "Look, I'll pay for a new pair of glasses, if it makes you feel any better."

Clover slipped the broken pair back onto his face. One working eye was better than none. "The new pair is on you, then." Clover wanted to say more, wanted to tell Itchy he was an idiot and drill in the fact that this was stupid, but he buttoned his lips. "Let's get back into costume. We're here now and we have a table, so there's no turning back."

He gathered up the coat and walked towards Itchy, slipping his arms through the sleeves and adjusting it around his thin shoulders. Before positioning himself behind his friend, Clover looked up to see a nervous expression plastered across Itchy's face. The other man's tiny eyes were wide with alarm, his gaze focused elsewhere as he stared towards the door.

"Hey, Itchy." Clover tugged at the long tails extending from Itchy's coat. "It's time to get back in the –"

"Shhhhhh!" Itchy held a finger to his lips and hissed. "I hear something weird out there."

Clover shut up and listened. At first, he heard nothing but the gentle sigh of his own breath rushing in and out of his nostril slits. But that in itself wasn't right. Where was the sax? The drone of the voices? He hadn't been paying close attention, but he was sure he heard the gentle din of the crowd from outside when they'd first entered the restroom. Now there was only silence.

Then suddenly he heard the harsh barking of an angry male voice. From the other side of the threshold, Clover couldn't make out its words, but he didn't have to to know it was mad. Pissed. Enraged. Probably a little insane. And it wanted something, it wanted something real bad, and Clover found himself silently hoping whoever ran the joint would hand that something over, but then he knew either they didn't have it or they weren't budging, because that was when the gunshots started.

There was no mistaking it, they were definitely gunshots. A semi-automatic from the sound of it.

Clover's stomach suddenly felt queasy.

All those people...

"Oh, God dammit, they might be on to us!" Itchy dove for the small space between the toilet and the sink, tossing the trashcan that occupied that space out of the way so he could take its place. It bounced across the floor, littering the bathroom with used tissues. He tucked his knees to his chin and started to sob. "They're gonna fucking kill us. Shit, I thought I covered our asses good, too!"

"Itchy," Clover put a little green hand on Itchy's knee, "calm down."

Itchy was always so strung-out on coffee and other stimulants that asking him to calm down was like asking the world to stop turning, but it was worth a shot. Of course, it failed.

The sound of gunshots rattled through the air, loud, fast, and staccato.

Itchy had his hands over his ear-holes, his green eyes huge with pure terror. His breath came in short, panicked gasps. "It must be the Crew. It's gotta be the Crew. They're here for us, they're gonna kill us."

"Itchy, calm down."

"But how did they know it was us? The Felt? We didn't do anything bad today. All I did was fucking drive." He hugged his knees to his chest and began to rock back and forth. "Oh, fuck. Oh fuck. I know how they did it. I know what this is. Two-Four-Six-Eight, it was Doze's license plate! They must've seen the damn thing and known it was his, so they followed us. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. "

"Itchy, calm the _fuck_ down, or I'll shoot you." It was a bluff, he'd never shoot Itchy, but he pulled his pistol out and aimed it for emphasis.

Itchy stopped his hysterics, though his breath still came out in short gasps of panic. And it was then in that moment of quiet that Clover noticed the sudden silence. Was it over, or was it just a lull in the storm?

"It...stopped." Itchy rose to his feet, his legs shaking. He gripped the side of the porcelain sink for balance. "Do you think it's safe to go out? 'Cause I ain't fucking going out there unless you do."

Clover tip-toed to the door and pressed the side of his head against it. He heard nothing. No shuffling, no voices, just...nothing.

"Don't know." He clicked the safety off on his gun. "But I'll go first. If there's still someone out there, the bullets will just miss me anyway. Just help me get the knob."

Itchy turned the knob for his undersized friend and pushed the door outward, just enough for Clover to slip between the door and its frame. The restaurant was dark, almost all of the lights had been shot out or damaged beyond repair, and it was in a state of horrific disarray. The innermost reaches of the room were hazy, though from dust, smoke, or gunpowder, Clover didn't know, making everything look nebulous and strange. He could make out the dark shapes of tables and chairs, some overturned, some busted to splinters amidst the darkness, but it seemed there was not a soul in sight. Through his one good eye he tried to peer further, squinting against the shadows, to perhaps see what lay beyond the fog, but it was too thick.

Things were quiet. It was time to scoot.

"Okay," he motioned for Itchy to come forward, "looks good. A little freaky, but good."

The taller man stepped out of the bathroom, and his eyes widened when he saw the damage. "What the fuck?"

"You tell me." Clover managed a shaky laugh devoid of humor. "Good thing we were locked in the bathroom, otherwise..." He looked at the strange mess, letting the sight of it speak for him.

"Screw finding the girl, it's way to fucking late now," Itchy said. "Let's just get back to the car and –"

There was a loud bang as a gun was fired, and the wall behind Itchy exploded in a shower of plaster.

Itchy tugged downward on the brim of his hat, as though pulling it would somehow grant him protection. "Fuck, they ain't gone yet! That's it, I'm getting us outta here."

Before Clover could say a word, he was snatched up and slung over Itchy's shoulder like a sack of rice. "Hold on tight, I'm using my powers to get us home. Screw this fucking shit, I've had enough this night."

Clover held onto his cap with one hand and dug the fingers of the other into Itchy's suit. "But, Itchy, what about Doze's car?"

Another shot. A tile near Itchy shattered, sending shrapnel in all directions.

"Fuck Doze's car. I want _out_."

There was no time for Clover to make a protest, after that, Itchy turned on the speed. The world flashed and became a brilliant white blur, and for a moment, Clover's own thoughts ran at such a speed that even he couldn't make sense of himself.

And just like that, they were gone.


End file.
